Josie let out one of those long sighs, and the warmth of it crept down my neck. “I just wanted you to know the invitation’s there should you choose to accept it.”
“Thanks, Joze, and I mean this with sincere gratitude . . . but no thanks.” Truthfully, that she’d even invited me to stay at her place was enough to choke a man up, but I couldn’t let her know that. There was no way I could let her know she was probably the only person on the face of the earth who’d invite me to crash at their place for an indefinite amount of time. A few minutes of silence passed between us, long enough so her embrace shifted back from pain to comfort. Long enough I’d almost fallen asleep from the drugs.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I said instantly. I didn’t want to talk about it then, the next day, or never. Talk, kind of like I’m sorry, didn’t change anything.
Josie didn’t press me. She didn’t try to encourage me that opening up and talking until my vocal chords oozed blood was a part of the healing process. She knew me, and while most of the time that was a detriment, right then it wasn’t. She knew I didn’t talk about anything I didn’t want to because she’d been around long enough to know my M.O. Plus, she was the same. Trying to get Josie to open up about something she didn’t want to would have been about as successful an endeavor as trying with me.
“What are you going to do?” she said a minute later, her voice soft, almost scared. Josie did scared about as often as I did, so I couldn’t understand where it was coming from. What was she scared about? Scared for me? Scared of life and its suddenness? Scared of what?
Letting out a long sigh, I said, “I don’t know, Joze. I don’t f**king know.”
Moving so smoothly I barely felt the mattress shift, Josie crawled over me until she was laying in front of me, her face inches from mine. Whatever sadness or fear had been in her voice wasn’t on her face. Her green eyes locked onto mine, and if I believed in that kind of shit, I would have sworn whatever peace or certainty was in them transferred to me. For the first time that night—for the first time that year—I felt peaceful. At rest. It was such an alarming sensation, I didn’t know what to do. Run and duck for cover, or exhale and bask in it.
Before I’d made up my mind, Josie leaned in closer until her lips pressed into mine. My eyes hadn’t dropped before her mouth left mine, but the taste of her strawberry lip gloss lingered.
“What was that for?” I asked once I remembered how to speak. Josie was an expert at rendering me speechless.
Sliding off of the bed, she paused before disappearing behind the curtain. “It looked like you needed that.”
Chapter Three
HOW DID ONE hold a funeral for a person whose body was gone? Hell, for a person whose ashes didn’t even fill an urn? The whole concept was lost on me, but I was about to find out.
A few days after the fire, the chaplain at the hospital offered to do a service after he asked about funeral arrangements and I pretty much scratched my head in answer. Clay died with no money in the bank, and his secret whiskey stash went up with the rest of the trailer. Since I had a whopping forty-two dollars in my wallet, having a funeral service inside of a church was out. So much for not-for-profit . . .
The chaplain had suggested holding the service outside, at a location of my choosing—maybe somewhere I had fond memories of Clay and I being together. When my answer was another head scratching, the chaplain gave up and suggested a spot by the river. Worked for me. So long as it was quick and to the point, I was fine with Clay’s funeral being held there.
It was almost one o’clock, and I was going to be late. I’d pulled into the public access parking lot fifteen minutes ago, but I couldn’t pull myself out of my truck to make the short hike to where the chaplain was waiting for me. He was already there. At least, I assumed his car was the one with the bumper sticker that read Don’t drive faster than your guardian angel can fly. There weren’t any other cars in the parking lot. It was late fall, too late in the season for fishermen, or campers, or anyone other than a random funeral goer to be enjoying the river.
The chaplain had encouraged me to invite as many family members and friends as I wanted, assuring me the mourning process was so much easier to go through with the support of loved ones. The best I could do after he’d said that was to not laugh. Loved ones mourning Clay Black? Hell, I was his last living flesh and blood, and even I wasn’t so hot on the idea of mourning him. How was I supposed to mourn a man I’d hated more days than not? How could I miss a father who’d reminded me every day how he cursed the day I was born? Mourning a person didn’t come standard with death. It was an honor reserved for those who lived life right.
Needless to say, I hadn’t invited anyone else. No one but me would be there, and even I didn’t want to attend. The only reason I finally shoved open that driver’s side door was because I knew the chaplain was waiting and he sure as hell didn’t need to go out of his way for Clay. So I sure as hell wasn’t going to let his good deed be wasted. Adjusting my hat, I made sure the bottle cap was still in my shirt pocket before heading down the trail.
Since the only thing left of Clay was whatever was left inside the shell of the trailer, the chaplain recommended I bring something meaningful to Clay and me. Something that could stand in place of a casket or an urn. Something that encapsulated his forty years of life. It took me a while, but I finally found something that summed Clay Black up perfectly. A token that was more the man my father was than any varnished casket.